Susan wouldn’t like that either. “I’ve no idea what Lady Witney will do, but it sounds as though you have things well in hand.”

As the final course was served, Gregory wondered if he might be able to take Mrs. Renshaw onto the terrace later. It was bloody cold tonight as they neared mid-December, but he wanted just a few moments alone with her.

No, he wanted much more than that. To that end, an idea had formulated in his mind—a wild, shocking, sure-to-be-rejected scheme—that he couldn’t dispel. He only hoped he didn’t horrify Mrs. Renshaw with the suggestion.

Dinner drew to a close, and the ladies rose to adjourn to the drawing room. Gregory helped Mrs. Renshaw from her chair and wished her luck with the game—and, more importantly, with keeping his brother’s wife at bay.

After the women left, Creighton invited Gregory to take the now-empty seat to his right. Over port, he described the refurbishments he had planned, including the addition of an orangery.

Clifford jumped into the conversation at every opportunity, to the point that Gregory stopped trying to say anything. Creighton seemed to notice this, his expression patient with a mild, almost imperceptible edge of frustration.

Mr. Wadleigh, the constable, sat to Gregory’s right. In his forties, he sported thick graying hair with even thicker brows. Speaking so only Gregory would hear him, he said, “His lordship has a great deal to say. How do you ever get a word in?”

“It can be difficult. Occasionally, I just abandon hope.”

“We all certainly miss your father around here.” Wadleigh’s tone was sympathetic. “Dare we hope you’ll be staying at Witney Court for some time?”

“Only through the holidays.” After nearly nine months since his father’s death, it was time to get back to his life.

Wadleigh lifted his glass to Gregory before draining what little was left. “I hope you’ll visit.”

Gregory finished his port as well, which ended up being timely. Creighton stood, saying it was time to join the ladies. Presumably, he’d had more than enough of Clifford’s verbosity.

The ladies were indeed playing the embroidery game. And it was Susan’s turn. Her face was splotched with red, making her look angry or discouraged or both as she furiously poked the needle through the linen.

“Time’s up!” Mrs. Creighton called, eyeing a small hourglass on the table beside her.

Susan’s shoulders slumped and she let out a soft hiss, sounding like a snake that had missed its prey. “Is this better?” she asked, holding up the linen.